


The Art of Contention

by contraryrhythm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, museum!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4089034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contraryrhythm/pseuds/contraryrhythm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke have been nemeses from the day they started interning at the Ark Museum together. But underneath the animosity, is there a spark of something else? And can a work trip to Russia bring that spark to the surface?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Just Judges (Jan van Eyck)

“Blake.” Clarke slapped her palms on the desk and leaned down to give the man her iciest glare. “There is no way you’re stealing Russia from me. No way.” A wave of tawny hair slipped into her line of vision, and she pushed it back impatiently.

Bellamy smirked and put down his pen. He relaxed back in his worn desk chair, sprawled into it like it was the Iron Throne. Clarke wanted to smack him. He’d been a thorn in her side since two months ago, when they had first begun working as interns for the prestigious Ark Museum. The Ark internship program was selective and desperately coveted by hundreds of undergraduate and graduate applicants, and the exhilaration of working here was only dampened by the arrogant, infinitely irritating man in front of her. Technically he’d been a pain in the ass even before that: they both went to the same university, so she’d had the displeasure of meeting him a few times before they started working together. At least Bellamy’s graduate history classes had never overlapped with Clarke’s undergrad art courses. Now it was worse.

Some of the time, Clarke was able to avoid him at work too, but it wasn’t easy. Although the interns spent most of their time shadowing full-time museum employees, their desks were clustered in the same room. He was always encroaching on her territory. And now he was trying to steal her conference.

“That’s funny, because last I heard, Jaha approved it.”

“He’s going to un-approve it,” Clarke snapped unreasonably. It was the ultimate injustice that the Ark was funding _Bellamy Blake,_ of all people, to attend one of the most distinguished art conferences in the eastern hemisphere. She’d been dreaming of TONDC since middle school. And to have _him_ take it from her… She’d launched from her desk like a missile of fury as soon as she’d received the email that began _Congratulations to Bellamy Blake…_

That self-satisfied smile stayed firmly in place. “Salty much?”

She thought her heart was going to explode with anger. “I was the one who TOLD you about TONDC!”

He shrugged. “I applied first. You snooze you lose, princess.”

Her lips tightened in distaste at the word “princess.”

“How many times do I have to tell you NOT to call me that?” she fumed.

“I think it’s cute, actually.” Monty, the IT intern, piped up from the adjacent desk. He looked up from examining the router in front of him. “Cuz your mom’s curator and that’s kind of like a queen…” He shrank and trailed off as Clarke turned her glare on him. “…Or not. I’m just gonna get some more…things.” He scurried away towards the server room.

“Now look, you’ve scared him off. Unkind, Clarke.” Bellamy tutted in mock disapproval.

“I’m going to see Jaha. NOW.” Clarke stormed away from the desk, heading into the hallway. Bellamy rolled his eyes and jogged to catch up with her.

“Jesus, princess, there’s no need to be so dramatic. You shouldn’t expect to get everything just because you’re the child of museum royalty.”

Clarke didn’t take the bait, but she gritted her teeth and walked faster. No matter how many times she heard snarky comments about her mother, they still pissed her off. She hadn’t gotten any special privileges from her mother’s position; if anything, administration was harder on her lest they be accused of nepotism. And her mother was harder on her than anyone. Always expecting more. Clarke fully believed that the other interns had worked their asses off to be here, but so had she, and she hated being dismissed by their assumptions.

Thankfully, Bellamy shut up for the rest of the short walk to Jaha’s office. The Ark director was a busy man, but he liked the idea of connecting with the museum’s network of employees, and that included interns. He encouraged them to check in with any questions or concerns. Granted, the interns rarely took advantage of this offer—because really, what top-level administrator actually _means_ it when he tells his employee-minions to pop in at their leisure?—but this was important.

Clarke stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath, looking up at the thin plaque that read _Thelonius Jaha, Executive Director._ Another deep breath. Plowing into his office like an incensed bull wasn’t going to do anything for her case.

“Lost your nerve?” Bellamy was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Why are you even here?” she shot back, and knocked on the door before she could overthink it.

The murmur of conversation inside paused.

“Come in!” called a deep voice. The director.

Clarke twisted the door handle and stepped inside. She purposely opened the door as little as possible, slipping through the gap and pushing it closed in Bellamy’s face. It was immature, but still satisfying. He didn’t take the hint, re-opening the door and stepping inside. Clarke resisted the ridiculous urge to stick her tongue out at him.

She registered that there were two other people in the room: Jaha, the director, and Kane, chief conservator and Clarke’s direct supervisor. Jaha sat at a characteristically cluttered hardwood desk, illuminated by gold-tinted light from the window behind him. Kane was seated in a plush chair in front of him. He’d craned around in his seat to see who was visiting, and his face lit up when he saw his protegee.

“Clarke! We were just talking about you.” His eyes creased when he smiled. “Hi, Bellamy.”

“It’s good to see you both,” Jaha acknowledged. The director was not quite as exuberant. Clarke had always pegged him as the guy who took his job just a _little_ too seriously. And that was saying something, coming from her; art was the love of her life. But there were rumors that Jaha was kind of loopy. Apparently he’d once been found in the main gallery staring at Caravaggio’s _The Adoration_ at 3 in the morning, muttering about rescuing the painted infant. (Clarke just figured he’d been drunk. And who could blame him if he was a little off his rocker? His teenage son died in a freak accident a few years back.)

Kane was grounded and good-humored where Jaha was eccentric and solemn. Abby, Clarke’s mom, had worked with him for several years now, and she claimed that Kane used to be a complete asshole. He’d schemed to take Jaha’s job several times. Of course that was water under the bridge now, and he seemed to be trying to make up for past indiscretions by being as pleasant to everyone as possible.

“Was there something you needed?” Jaha asked politely.

Clarke steeled herself. “Yes, sir. Permission to speak freely?”

Jaha nodded. Clarke ignored Bellamy, who was now leaning against the closed office door and looked like all he wanted was some popcorn to watch her make a fool of herself.

“I submitted a funding application about two weeks ago to attend TONDC in Moscow, and today I saw the email congratulating Bellamy Blake on his accepted application. I understand that Bellamy has seniority, technically—” She hated acknowledging that. Bellamy was constantly lording it over her that he was halfway through his masters while Clarke had just finished her second year of undergrad. “—and I’m sure he’s a very talented candidate—” She was practically grinding her teeth as she forced that out. “—but with all due respect, one of the core tenets of the Ark program is giving equal consideration to undergraduate and graduate participants, and although I submitted my application slighter later than Bellamy’s, I would appreciate it if you could reconsider mine.”

At this point, Kane looked confused, and Jaha had a hand half-raised as if to interject, but Clarke plowed on. She knew if she didn’t say it all now, she’d lose her nerve and the closest she’d get to TONDC was the poster on her apartment wall.

“I’ve been dreaming of this conference for years. It’s one of the things that inspired me to pursue art as a career. I’ve worked hard to get to this point, and I know that I’ve barely scratched the surface of what it takes to succeed in this field, I will never stop trying.” The words spilled from her mouth earnest and unscripted. “If you were to give me the opportunity to go to Moscow, I promise I will learn everything I possibly can, and soak up every possible benefit, and bring what I’ve learned back so that I can better myself and maybe even the Ark. I—”

“Clarke!” Kane interrupted, finally unable to hold back. “Hold on a minute. Your app was approved, didn’t you know?”

Clarke stared at him dumbly.

“We didn’t have the chance to convey the good news yet,” Jaha commented dryly. “Though I appreciated the fervor of your speech just now, Miss Griffin, you’re already going to Moscow.”

“But the email, congratulating him…” she protested, still confused. She refused to look back at Bellamy. She would bet her pet guinea pig that he was smirking.

Jaha sighed. “Mr. Blake is also going to TONDC. I wanted to speak with your respective mentors before asking them to inform you and send out a congratulatory email. I’ve just spoken with Sinclair, hence the email.” Sinclair was Bellamy’s mentor and Director of Museum Education. He was brisk and efficient to a fault, so it was no surprise that he’d composed an email almost immediately after the meeting. “I was in the middle of briefing Marcus when you came in.”

“Oh.” Clarke was speechless. On one hand, she had just embarrassed herself in front of Kane and the director for no reason. On the other, they were sending her to Moscow. _I’m going to TONDC!_ She felt like she was going to float off the floor and take flight. Her insides were doing somersaults in a confused mix of chagrin, joy, excitement, and…dread?

Why dread?

And then she processed what she’d already unconsciously realized: Bellamy was going to TONDC too. They were going _together._ The two of them. Plus their mentors, but mostly: the two of them.

Distantly, she realized that Jaha was speaking.

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell her, Mr. Blake. Sinclair told you that Clarke was coming as well, didn’t he?”

There was a pause, then Clarke’s eyes narrowed to slits. She slowly turned to give Bellamy a glare that rightfully should have singed his curly black hair. He wasn’t looking at her, and his eyes were wide with innocence.

“I didn’t think it was my place to tell her, director. But I’m so happy that I’ll have a friend with me at the conference.”

For a moment, Clarke wished she lived in a barbaric post-apocalyptic world so that she could leap on him and strangle him. Or stab him. Or possibly hang him from a tree. Unfortunately, this was the Ark, where homicidal acts are generally frowned upon. Slowly, she forced herself to unclench her fists, and turned back to Kane and Jaha.

“I’m happy too,” she said, and partially she was. She would be wholly overjoyed if not for Bellamy Blake, tainting wonderful things with his stupid face as usual. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Director Jaha, and I’m so sorry for interrupting.”

“Not a problem,” Jaha said graciously.

Kane checked his watch and looked up at Clarke. “Let me finish here, and then we can meet in my workshop in about 20?”

Clarke nodded, not trusting her voice not to crack under the pressure of her conflicted emotions.

“Thank you,” she said again, meaning it, and turned towards the door. Bellamy opened it for her and made an exaggerated bow, gesturing her to go first. She did her best not to stalk as she exited.

She waited until Bellamy stepped out and the door closed. She waited a few more steps for good measure, making sure they were out of earshot of the office. Only then did she turn to Bellamy and jab her fingers into his chest hard so that he lost his balance and fell against the wall.

“Whoa, princess!” He righted himself and held up his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. She advanced on him, arms crossed, lips pursed in a grimace.

“I know _exactly_ what you’re up to, Blake, and you’re not going to get away with it,” she said dangerously. Quietly, but dangerously. It was unfortunate that the effect was slightly ruined by being several inches shorter than him. “You’re trying to make me look stupid. Well, guess what? The only way they’re going to think that I’m stupid is if I’m actually stupid. And I’m not.”

Their faces were close now. A little too close for comfort, Clarke realized belatedly. Her head was tipped up slightly to look him in the eyes, so she saw it when his gaze flicked almost imperceptibly down, then back up again. There was a funny sort of warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it was making her uncomfortable. A tiny, dark part of her mind wished he would just grab her around the waist and pull her to him and crush his open mouth against hers—

She cleared her throat and turned away from him quickly to hide the flush in her cheeks. _Idiotic hormones. Evolution and genetics. Means absolutely nothing._

Clarke tossed back her hair, now with a safe few feet of distance between them. Bellamy glanced down and licked his lips in a seemingly unconscious habit (she’d noticed it a few times) before speaking.

“To think you said such nice things about me in there,” he said, back to being breezily sardonic. “I thought we were friends.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, turned on her heel, and left him behind. She walked quickly to shake off everything that had just happened. The important thing was that she was living her dream! Her favorite art conference in the world. But despite the exciting prospect of TONDC, she couldn’t get rid of a creeping feeling of unease.

Because Bellamy Blake might not be _stealing_ Russia from her, but he still had the potential to royally screw it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Haven't written fic since my livejournal days, so I'm stretching my rusty fic-writing muscles for Bellarke. Please be gentle with me, lol. Hit me up with any concrit or feedback in the comments! ^_^
> 
> P.S. Each chapter is named after a famous lost or destroyed work of art. (In my universe, these pieces are all intact and exhibited at the Ark Museum.) For anyone interested, "The Just Judges" by Jan van Eyck was part of an altarpiece and was stolen in 1934. The thief refused to reveal the secret of its location even on his deathbed, so it was never recovered.


	2. The Drawing Lesson (Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin)

Raven almost snorted milk up her nose when Clarke told her the next morning. She proceeded to laugh-choke into her Lucky Charms for the next minute. Clarke was not amused.

“Hah!” she said when she finally caught her breath. “That’s great.”

“Great?” Clarke repeated flatly. She grabbed a granola bar from the box under the kitchen counter and tore it open aggressively. It was Monday, and her next class didn’t start till noon, so she had time to eat a more extensive breakfast, but she was too used to rushing out the door on work days. She worked at the Ark on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, starting at 8am sharp.

Technically the Ark only expected interns to work on Fridays, when most students could manage to keep their schedules clear of classes, but both the internship and her major were competitive by nature, so most of the interns worked whenever they could. This was not a career for the lazy. _You snooze you lose, princess,_ snarked Bellamy Blake’s voice in Clarke’s head. She took a ferocious bite of granola bar and told it to shut up.

“Come on, it’s funny. Also, that’s a horrible breakfast.” As if Raven had room to talk about nutrition. Clarke’s roommate had worse eating habits than anyone else she knew.

“I told him about the conference, then he applied _behind my back_ , and then he let me make a fool of myself when he _knew_ that I was already accepted—”

Raven was waving her hand for Clarke to stop, mouth full of cereal.

“You can’t blame him for that part. You basically pounced on him, like, ready to attack.” She brandished her spoon for emphasis. “What was he supposed to do?”

“Tell me what he knew and save us both some trouble,” Clarke said grumpily. “And you’re supposed to be on my side.”

Raven sighed. “Bellamy isn’t an asshole—I mean, he is, but not completely. He’s a decent guy.”

“You would know,” Clarke muttered darkly. She was referring, of course, to the fact that Raven had hooked up with Bellamy. _Fraternizing with the enemy._ That was about half a year ago, long before the Ark internship, but Clarke still couldn’t believe it had happened. They had met at some campus-wide Mount Weather concert, gotten tipsy, and spent the night in Raven’s bed. Hence, Clarke’s first meeting with Bellamy had been catching him sneaking out the front door in the morning with one of Clarke’s granola bars (the nerve, seriously).

“Ow!” Raven had kicked her with a booted foot under the counter.

“That was _one time._ You promised you’d stop bringing it up. Besides, I get a free pass. I was rebounding from Fishface.”

“Fishface” was the moniker they’d given to Finn, the guy who had cheated on Raven with Clarke. He was a douchebag, and he’d broken both their hearts, so they never used his real name anymore. Still, he was the reason that Clarke and Raven had met and become inexplicable best friends, so Clarke was grateful to him in a way. Though she’d still love to punch him in the face.

“Yeah yeah, excuses.”

“Don’t be jealous. That was before you and Bellamy had your _thing_.” She waggled her spoon in Clarke’s direction to illustrate the amorphous _thing_ , then dropped the spoon in her empty bowl and got up to put it in the sink.

“Excuse me?!? There is no thing.”

Raven gave her a patronizing look as she rinsed the bowl. “Yeah okay, _princess._ ”

Clarke made a face. “That’s meant to be an insult, Rave.”

“More like a pet name if you ask me. The nickname, the sexual tension…”

“There is NO sexual tension!” Clarke insisted. Their pet guinea pig started squeaking in response to her raised voice. She was grateful for the distraction, because she was pretty sure she was blushing. _For absolutely no reason._

“See, even Pod agrees.” Raven reached into the fridge and retrieved a baby carrot for the furry brown animal in the cage at the edge of the kitchen. She stuck the carrot between the bars of the cage. “C’mon babe, eat the carrot, not my finger.” Then she sat back on her heels. “Whoo, you’re stinky. It’s Clarkey’s turn to clean out your bedding, isn’t it?”

“Wasn’t it just my turn last week?”

“Yeees, but I made you dinner that one night.” She washed and dried her hands, then checked her phone.

“Ramen?” Clarke said skeptically.

“Ooh, look at the time, I’m gonna be late for class! Bye babe, I love you.” She snagged her backpack off the floor by the door and blew an ostentatious kiss to Clarke. Clarke rolled her eyes as the door closed behind her. She sighed and picked up a glass of water.

She toasted in Pod’s general direction. “Here’s to you, pig.”

///

In the hour before leaving for class, Clarke did the dishes, cleaned out Pod’s cage (putting him in the bathtub for safekeeping), and made her bed. Productivity was her solution to anxiety, and she was feeling distinctly anxious about TONDC. She fished out her planner from her backpack and flopped on her bed, flipping it to March. _March 11-15 th. _Ordinarily she’d have to worry about missing class, but TONDC fell blessedly within the bounds of spring break this year. She flipped a few pages back, nibbling on the end of a pen. Only three weeks until she left for Moscow.

Restlessly, she shifted onto her back, turning her head so she could stare at her wall. Raven and Clarke had separate rooms connected by a communal kitchen and bathroom, so all the décor here was Clarke’s. An autographed Mumford & Sons poster. A sketch of a squirrel that Clarke’s freshman mentee Jasper had given her. A corkboard with photos of friends, old notes, and post-it reminders. A print of a dark horse and its rider on a stone bridge, by Clarke’s favorite modern painter Anya Lachman. And one poster, a whirl of muted colors and shapes, with “TONDC 2010” in solid black lettering in the center, above a smaller list of dates and artists. 2010. That was the year her mother went, back when Clarke’s dad was still alive. The conference had been held in London that year. A few weeks later, Abby had thrown the poster away, but Clarke rescued it from the trash. For her, it was a representation of both her dream and the father who always believed she could achieve it.

There was no way Clarke would let Bellamy Blake ruin this for her. It was ridiculous to even think of that. TONDC was too important to let some stupid guy interfere. She could just ignore him. Thus determined, Clarke rolled off the bed and went to fetch Pod from the bathtub. She held him for a minute and looked into his small beady eyes.

“It’s going to be amazing, Pod.” He squeaked in response. She petted him and then put him back in his cage, where he promptly scurried into his plastic igloo.

A glance at the microwave clock told her she had 15 minutes to get to class. Anatomical Drawing from Life. Clarke wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t that her classes didn’t interest her; she loved art, and these classes did challenge her. It just felt so much more _real_ when she was working at the Ark. Classes were more of an enjoyable means to an end. The Ark was like real-world experience, actually making a difference in the conservation and celebration of precious art pieces.

Regardless, she grabbed her backpack and headed out. Her phone chimed on her way to the Fine Arts building, and she perked up considerably when she read the text. _Hi Clarke! It’s Kane. I know you’re not working 2day but can you swing by after class? Paperwork for TONDC, has to be done ASAP._

 _Sure thing! I’ll be out around 2:30,_ she texted back, and continued walking with more of a spring in her step. Class wasn’t so bad. Maybe today they’d actually start with the naked models.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

Instead, they had a guest lecturer. Their TA Indra was known for bringing in guest lecturers at least three times a semester, often unexpectedly. She was big on interdisciplinary cooperation. Material from the guest lectures featured heavily on their exams, which made it virtually impossible to skip the class (not that Clarke would anyway).

Clarke was a few minutes early, and only about fifteen people were already there, half the full class. She slid into a desk farthest from the door and took out her sketchbook. No matter how many fine arts classes she took, she never got tired of doodling her own ideas. The door opened and closed again and again, ushering in the rest of the students, but Clarke was engrossed in a forest under a starry sky. Every pencil stroke was an act of creation.

She was startled out of her drawing trance when her phone chimed. She’d forgotten to switch it to vibrate. The screen lit up with a new text: _Hey stranger._

From…Bellamy Blake.

Clarke’s head jerked up in time to catch the eye of the tall, dark-haired man opening his laptop on the front podium. With that infernal grin.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” she said out loud. Harper, the girl sitting next to her, gave her a weird look but said nothing.

 _Wow, I was stupid to think this was going to be a good day,_ she typed to him furiously. It had been going so well. Worst luck.

Clearly he was good at multitasking, because he managed to open his Powerpoint and text her back at the same time. Her phone buzzed. She stared murderously at the reply: _Be nice. I can ruin ur participation grade._

Before she could formulate a reply, Bellamy was starting class.

“Hi everyone, my name is Bellamy Blake, and I’m a masters student studying history with a specialization in art. Indra asked me to come in to talk to you about the shifts in artistic paradigms across the past few centuries.” He leaned an arm on the podium in front of him. He was wearing a suit, and Clarke had to admit privately that he looked good. “I know that sounds boring, but I promise I won’t put you to sleep.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “And your TA’s not here. We can do whatever the hell we want.”

A few people giggled. Clarke noted disgustedly that several of the girls—and one guy—were watching him with dreamy expressions. They might as well have big cartoon hearts in their eyes. _Ugh._

As he lectured, Clarke did her best to pick out every possible fault. She was fully prepared to be bored and annoyed and critical. But despite her best efforts, there were few faults to pick at. This wasn’t the Bellamy she knew. This version of Bellamy was clever, engaging, good-natured…even charming. He was a natural public speaker, and history was obviously his passion. His eyes lit up and his voice was confident as his hands moved in illustration.

“What do you all think?” His index finger skimmed the classroom, then pointed at Clarke. “Clarke?”

She had relaxed a little while she studied him and marveled at the change, but now her shoulders stiffened again. What had he been talking about? _Peter Paul Rubens and Nicolas Poussin,_ her brain supplied. _Battle of styles._

“Obviously lines and color are both important,” she said, staring straight at him. If he was trying to make her look stupid again, it wouldn’t work. “But personally, I’m with Poussin. Lines are essential. Color is optional.”

“Optional?” He walked towards her until he was standing in front of her desk. “Without color, the world would be monochrome.”

“Without lines, the world would be formless,” she countered.

“But color is the personification of emotion.”

“And?”

“Eliminating color is like excising what you feel.”

She shrugged. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Emotion is what makes us human.”

“Logic is what keeps us alive,” she retorted.

Their gazes were still locked. Clarke felt her heart beating faster and forced herself to breathe normally. _Dammit._ If he’d just stop looking at her like that…

 “And you’d be satisfied living a life devoid of feeling?” he asked quietly. Clarke felt hot and cold at the same time, but she refused to look away. “Without happiness or passion? Without love?”

Finally, Clarke couldn’t take it anymore, and she broke eye contact.

“It’s all theoretical,” she muttered.

Bellamy cleared his throat and stepped back. “Other opinions? Any rubenistes who disagree with Clarke? Or fellow poussinistes?”

Several classmates shared their opinions, but Clarke wasn’t paying attention. She felt shaky and off-balance, and she hated it. She didn’t want to look at Bellamy anymore. So she texted Raven under her desk: _Bellamy fucking blake is subbing for my art class. what did I do to deserve this!!?!? Brb going to kill him._

Her phone buzzed less than a minute later. _LOL that’s crazy! Plz refrain from homicide until I am there to help u hide the body._

They texted back and forth for the next half hour, until class was over. Clarke stuffed her sketchbook into her bag and was about to make an undignified dash for the door— _why do I always sit so damn far from the exit??_ —when Bellamy called her name. She paused, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and reluctantly looked towards him.

“You’re heading to the Ark, right?” He was packing up his stuff too. “Paperwork?”

Clarke considered lying, but it would be too obvious. Plus, she’d decided that he wasn’t going to be a distraction during TONDC, and if he wasn’t going to be a distraction, she had to start learning to deal with him calmly. She didn’t have to be _nice,_ but she should at least try to be civil. Being the bigger person and all.

“Yeah,” she said tersely. “You?”

“Let me give you a ride. My car’s right out back.”

“I, uh…” Again, Clarke considered all the routes out of this uncomfortable situation. Her car was parked at her apartment, which was over half a mile away. It was obvious that she hadn’t driven here. If she refused the ride, he would know she was avoiding him. She’d look like a coward and he would never let her live it down. Her thoughts hit a sign that said _Dead end._ “Are you sure?” she asked unenthusiastically.

He smirked. _There_ was the Bellamy she knew, all right. “What, princess? Scared to be in a car with me for five minutes?”

She smiled tightly, giving a “hmh” of false laughter. “Nope, that’s not it.” _Scared that I will murder you, more like._

Then she reined herself in with a deep breath. _Civility, Clarke. Civility!_

He slung a messenger bag over his shoulder. “Come on then.”

Like a cat being dragged to the vet, she unwillingly followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heh heh heh. I'm having fun with this.
> 
> P.S. No one seems to know what happened to the painting which gives this chapter its title. It's just "missing." Art mysteries~~


	3. Harlequin Head (Pablo Picasso)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for bickerings and flashbacks, yissss. Thank you for the wonderful kudos and comments! They keep me going, haha. You're all the best.

As they walked not-quite-side-by-side to the parking lot, Clarke distracted herself by trying to guess which car was his. _Something low-key but vaguely douchey._ He headed towards a vehicle in the farthest corner of the parking lot, under a small tree that provided some vestige of shade from the afternoon sun. A classic-looking tan station wagon with brown accents.

“Wait,” Clarke said, suddenly excited despite present company, “you drive an Eagle?”

He looked at her quizzically. “Yeah, 1987.”

“Damn,” she said enviously. She circled the car, forgetting to be angry at Bellamy for a minute. “You take good care of it.”

“ _You_ know about cars?” he asked.

She was too engrossed in the car to be offended by the doubt in his tone. Her hand was resting on the sun-warmed hood. “Not really. My dad used to have an ’86 Eagle. He loved that thing. It kept stalling though, so we had to junk it.”

“Is he into old cars?”

She paused. “He was.”

The warmth on her face faded as she remembered where she was and who she was with. Before he could reply, she said curtly, “Anyway, it’s a cool car.” Effectively closing the conversation.

He looked at her a moment longer, as if debating whether to pursue the topic she’d avoided, and then nodded and got into the car. He had to reach across the seat to pull up the manual lock on the passenger side door. She got in and stayed quiet, mentally chastising herself for letting down her guard. “Civility” did not mean she was going to be _friends_ with him.

Bellamy started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. They were silent for about a minute, Clarke occupying herself by checking her email on her phone.

“Did you mean what you said about logic and emotion?” Bellamy asked. “In class.”

She looked over at him, surprised. “More or less. I just think that emotions are really unreliable.”

“Why’s that?”

“An emotion can tell you one thing, and be completely wrong.” She felt the need to justify herself. “Like in a relationship, when you think someone loves you, but they’re cheating on you.” _Case in point: Fishface._ “Emotion blinds you from seeing the logical truth.”

“But without emotion, life would be boring. No grief, but no happiness. We might as well be robots.”

“It might be worth it,” she said with a shrug. _Is that true?_ she wondered privately. Honestly, she wasn’t sure. Life had burned her more than once, to the point where the idealism she once had was a numb, blackened stump—but she wouldn’t give up all the small things that made it feel worthwhile. _Right?_

“So what’s the logical truth in you hating me?”

She looked at him, startled. His eyes were on the road. He flicked on his left turn signal.

“I don’t _hate_ you.”

He scoffed. “Oh really? You sure make a good show of it, princess.”

“It’s not like you enjoy my company either,” she retorted. “We’re _competition._ We were enemies from the day we started working for the Ark.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sure, I’m not your biggest fan. You’re the one who started the whole rivalry thing.”

“Pretty sure that was you.” She looked out the window coldly.

He let the point slide. “Whatever. My point is, it’s not just competition on your end.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Um, yes it is.”

“Oh really? How come you’re not hostile to Monty? Or Lincoln?”

“I—it’s not. I’m not…UGH.” She would _not_ tell him the truth. It was too damn embarrassing. “Why does it matter?”

“A lot of people don’t like me, and that’s fine. But usually I know _why_ they don’t like me. I don’t get it with you.”

“I don’t like you because you’re not what you seem.”

He braked for a traffic light and used the pause to give her a “what the fuck” look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She cast about for a suitable explanation, a disarmed fencer grabbing a stick to defend herself.

“Case in point: after I mentioned TONDC in conversation, you immediately looked it up and applied for funding yourself, without giving me any warning. What if there weren’t enough funds to send two people?” As she spoke, she found herself getting genuinely angrier. “You should have said something. It was obvious that this conference is important to me, and for all you knew, you _could’ve_ been the only one approved. And you didn’t even let me know. Dick move.”

“Look, princess, you don’t have a monopoly on liking art conferences. I heard it from you, and I applied. We both got it, fair and square.”

“Giving your opponent warning is kind of common courtesy, Blake.”

“Pardon me for being too busy working on my application to give your royal highness notice.”

She crossed her arms, lips pressed together tightly. “You’re untrustworthy.”

“And you gathered this fact from knowing me so well?”

“I know enough,” she said stubbornly.

He shook his head, lips twisted with disgust. “Your kind of people,” he said scornfully. “Always making assumptions about people you know nothing about.”

“Right, because you’re such an impartial judge of character yourself,” she snapped. “Thanks for the ride.” She got out of the car and shut the door behind her (did not slam it, because that was a beautiful ’87 Eagle no matter who it belonged to), and walked towards the museum. She didn’t wait for him to catch up.

///

Once upon a time, Clarke had actually felt friendly towards Bellamy Blake. A long, long time ago.

The first time she met him, despite his thievery of her granola bar, he was actually…pretty nice.

It was a mild morning in September, near the beginning of the school year. She had walked out of her room yawning at around 10am that morning and found him sitting at the kitchen counter, writing in a notebook.

“Oh…hi,” she said, feeling self-conscious in her fuzzy pajama pants. “You’re not Raven.”

He looked up. “You must be Clarke. I’m Bellamy.” His voice had a low, clear timbre that she immediately wanted to hear more of. She would have liked a voice like his to narrate her life.

He proffered his hand towards her, and she shook it. Then she padded over to the fridge and poked her head inside. Not much of a selection, as usual. She grabbed the orange juice, plus a red solo cup from the bag next to the toaster, and sat across from Bellamy.

She was about to ask him if he wanted anything to eat, but then she saw the half-eaten granola bar in his hand. She snorted.

“I see you helped yourself to breakfast,” she said, teasing but good-natured.

“Were these yours?” He grinned, looking abashed but unrepentant. The face of a boy who got caught stealing from the cookie jar but totally didn’t regret it. “My bad. I owe you one.”

She shook her head in disapproval. “Snack thief.”

“Hey, I’m a grad student, we’re deeper in debt than you undergrads. Consider this—” He took a bite of the bar “—a donation to the less fortunate.” He smiled broadly, but he had chocolate in his teeth. Clarke laughed out loud and tapped her own teeth significantly. It took him a second but he got the message and laughed too, putting a hand over his mouth. He had a nice laugh, full and deep like his voice.

Clarke got up to grab another red solo cup (she and Raven were too lazy to wash mugs when they didn’t have to) and filled it with filtered water for their guest. She offered it to Bellamy, who gave a nod of gratitude, and sat back down.

“So, you and Raven…is this a thing now?” she asked with a smirk. “As the roommate, I feel like I should know.”

He took a gulp of water. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Pretty sure it’s just a one-time thing. I don’t usually…yeah.” He laughed, shook his head ruefully. “One-time thing. Mutually.”

Clarke nodded sagely. “Understood.” She knew Raven wouldn’t want to get involved with anyone so soon after Finn—neither did Clarke, for that matter. It had been more than five months since he nuked their romantic lives (March 17th, 2014), but the wounds were still too fresh for both of them.

“I should probably get going actually. I just wanted to finish my lesson plan.” He gestured with his pen to the notebook in front of him. His handwriting was elongated and a little sloppy, but legible. “Dunno how to end it. I was trying to commune with your hamster for advice, but he refused to talk to me.”

Clarke looked over her shoulder at Pod’s cage, wrinkling her nose affectionately at the lump of fur curled up in a sleepy ball.

“Bet it’s because you called him a hamster,” she said sympathetically. “He takes offense to that, being a guinea pig.” She patted his hand patronizingly.

He rolled his eyes. “Same thing. You got any brilliant ideas?” He poised his pen over the notebook expectantly.

“Uh. Do a rain dance.” He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, my major is strictly art and I have no idea how to teach things.”

Bellamy gave a snort of laughter. He bent his head and quickly scrawled something in the notebook. Clarke tilted her head to read it, then nodded with an amused “not bad” expression. _Basically, the Greeks and Romans made a lot of statues of naked people._

“Profound,” she said. He grinned, shaking his head. He shoved the notebook into a messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder

“Good to meet you, Clarke. I’ll see you around.”

She saluted him. “Have a nice walk of shame, Bellamy!”

That was September. For the following few months, she had generally positive thoughts about Bellamy Blake. He was off-limits—Roommate Code, even if it was only one time—but she found herself thinking about him more than she expected. She thought they’d hit it off pretty well, considering. He’d been charming, funny, and, well, obviously attractive. Besides, extensive Facebook stalking had revealed that he was a history major with a specialization in art, so they were sure to have some common ground. (Facebook also reported that he was single. Not that she cared.)

Still, she hoped she wouldn’t run into him on campus; it would only fuel the pointless little crush she had. They passed by each other in the center of campus once, and they smiled and said hi, and Clarke’s heart fluttered. Bad sign. So she avoided the buildings where graduate history classes were held, as much as she could. As the weeks passed, he faded from her mind, but she still skirted the buildings where he might be out of habit.

By mid-December, she had an entirely different reason to avoid him.

Clarke was ecstatic that she’d been accepted to the Ark internship program, even if she’d have to work at the same place as her mother. The days crept by far too slowly, and she was counting down the days till her start date. Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait too long; before official work started, all interns were required to attend an orientation session.

On the morning of December 19th, Clarke donned a businesslike blouse and pants, smoothed out the wrinkles nervously, took it off, tried on another three outfits, and finally settled on the first one. She took one more look in the mirror, assessing the result: unstained white blouse with blazer, lint-free dress pants, wavy blonde hair in check, light makeup, a simple gold necklace, and a black purse. _Good enough._ She hurried out the door to catch the Mt. Weather U shuttle to the Ark.

Orientation was being held in a midsized conference room that looked more like a classroom, with the padded sort of flip-seats you find in auditoriums and movie theaters. Clarke accepted an enthusiastic introduction and welcome from Kane, who was acting as doorman along with Abby. Abby nodded at her daughter and gave a small encouraging smile, but nothing more. Clarke had asked her not to let anyone know that they were related, unless absolutely necessary. Their relationship was bound to come out eventually, but Clarke hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

She sized up the competition as she walked in. There were about 15 other interns, ten of whom were already present. A significant fraction of the Ark’s full-time staff was there as well, mostly those who would be mentoring the interns. She recognized them from their staff photos on the museum’s website, which she’d studied scrupulously the night before. Also in the room was a table with fruit, cheese and crackers. _Bingo._

Clarke held herself back from making an undignified dive for the familiar comfort of food. She walked over to the table in a dignified fashion, nodding to an Asian boy who gave her a brief smile between spearing cantaloupe onto his plate. Clarke had made her way through the cheese and crackers and was just beginning to attack the fruit platter when she heard a familiar deep voice from her right side.

“Hey, stranger.”

Her stomach did a back flip. She turned to see Bellamy Blake grinning at her.

“Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you?” he quipped, gesturing towards her heaping plate. She felt slightly abashed, but hey, she liked to eat food when she got nervous.

“Bellamy? What are you doing here?” She tried to sound casual.

“I’m an intern too, for museum education.” He picked up a plate and speared a piece of watermelon.

“But you’re a history major.”

“With a specialization in art,” he said. “And an interest in education.” Clarke realized that she had stopped getting food and was definitely holding up the line, so she moved towards the drinks. “Who are you going to be studying under?”

“Marcus Kane,” she replied.

“The conservator,” they said in unison. Clarke laughed. At that moment, Abby tapped on the microphone at the front of the room. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned towards the podium.

“Welcome, everyone! If you could please finish up your conversations and seat yourselves, we can get started.”

Bellamy extracted a last piece of watermelon from the platter. “I have to say, I’m happy to see a familiar face. Looking forward to working with you. Though I guess we’re competition now.”

“Hah! We don’t have to be competition.” Clarke willed herself not to blush. _Calm, cool, professional._ “It’ll be a good experience either way.”

“Yeah. Talk to you later.” With a small smile, he left the table to find a seat. His smile did strange things to Clarke’s insides, and it was thoroughly irritating. Particularly since at the time, she was dating a really smart, hot girl named Lexa, and it felt like emotional cheating to be so affected by Bellamy, even unintentionally. _Stupid hormones._

The morning portion of the orientation was fairly uneventful. Jaha, Abby, Kane, Sinclair, and other museum staff introduced themselves, gave speeches on the Ark’s mission and philosophy, and gave the interns an overview of the expectations for them. After the Powerpoint on museum policies, they called a lunch break. Clarke was feeling a little more comfortable at this point, more at ease with her workplace if not with her coworkers.

She had lunch with Monty, the guy who’d smiled at her in line. He was smart, but he seemed a little clueless in the most endearing of ways. Another intern named Nathan joined them, and they made small talk while they ate their sandwiches.

After they finished eating, Clarke decided to use the rest of the lunch break to wander the exhibits, as some of the other interns were already doing. She kept an eye out surreptitiously for Bellamy, but didn’t see him. Turning into the first doorway she saw, she found herself alone in the Michelangelo exhibit. The museum was closed to the public today, so this was a rare opportunity to pore over the art without impatient crowds or loud children at her back. She gazed avidly at each work, basking in the venerable history that permeated the very air she breathed. _Leda and the Swan, Hercules, David & Goliath, Cupid…_

The faint sound of conversation came to her—one of the voices sounded like Bellamy. She stepped into the adjoining room, but it was also empty. It was the Picasso exhibit, with _Harlequin Head, Portrait of Dora Maar,_ and _The Painter,_ among others. _Harlequin Head_ had always fascinated her most: the wizened, distorted face that conveyed as much pain as knowledge. The jester, the outcast…the feeling of being an outsider. It was a universal concept, one that Clarke could identify with keenly.

She resolved to come back to savor the painting more thoroughly, but at the moment she was occupied with tracking down the Bellamy-like voice. It was issuing from the doorway opposite her, along with another male voice. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she didn’t want to interrupt what sounded like a lively conversation, so she paused out of sight by the doorway.

Then she caught the topic of the conversation, and she held still as if rooted to the floor.  

“…Speaking of injustice, did you hear that one of the interns is the curator’s daughter?” She thought the other voice belonged to an intern named Murphy. She remembered his name because he had seemed instantly unfriendly.

“Seriously?” Bellamy.

“Yeah, name is Clarke. The short blonde.”

There was a pause. “Huh. I’ve met her, and she seemed okay. Had no idea she was related to Abby, though. Damn...”

“Some coddled bitch gets to work with Marcus Kane. I really wanted Conservation,” Murphy said bitterly.

Bellamy shrugged. “The selection process is always a crapshoot.”

“She’s gonna get her ass kicked. The rest of us didn’t get here cuz of our mommies,” Murphy said bitterly. He paused. “She’s hot, though,” he added. “Not Megan-Fox hot, but not bad.”

“Doesn’t matter if a girl is Aphrodite, it doesn’t make up for privilege,” Bellamy said. His tone sounded reluctant, almost rueful. “The privileged do tend to be incapable of doing anything for themselves.”

“I swear, I’m gonna beat that chick if I have to cut off her hand to do it. You with me?”

A sigh. “I don’t know, man. She seems like a decent kid.”

“Dude, do you know how many times some pampered shithead has taken an opportunity away from someone who worked their ass off for it? Too many damn times.”

“Yeah, I get it. I get it.” There was a noise that might have been two glasses clinking together. “A toast to people who actually work for what they have.”

Clarke walked away from the doorway silently. She was pretty sure she was going to throw up if she heard any more. She walked back to the conference room robotically, returned to her seat and sat down.

Shame and embarrassment were clawing at her stomach. She wasn’t used to people making these kind of assumptions about her—especially Bellamy Blake. God, what an idiot she’d been. Mooning over Bellamy as if she actually knew him, and all he thought about her was that she was an incapable idiot who had never worked for anything. He hadn’t been as vitriolic as Murphy, but he hadn’t exactly disagreed either. Ambivalence, yes, but not defense. He’d casually gone along with the idea that she was a talentless spoiled brat.

She’d known, of course, that she and Bellamy didn’t really know each other, but she’d thought they were on the path to being friends. Apparently not.

 _Stupid, so stupid._ She took a deep breath, leaning against the chair back for support. Her fingers curled and uncurled in her lap. She hoped she wasn’t anything like they thought.

Self-doubt gnawed at her for a few moments—had she only gotten this job because of her mother? had others worked harder than she had?—before she shook it off. _Who gives a damn what they think anyway?_ She would prove them wrong, and never again let attraction turn her into a vacuous fool.

Bellamy walked back into the conference room. He saw Clarke and sent her an uncertain smile. She pretended she hadn’t seen, and busied herself with checking her phone.

For a few weeks after that, Bellamy tried to be friendly to Clarke, but she rebuffed every attempt. Every time she saw him, a barrage of words echoed in her brain. _Coddled bitch. Doesn’t make up for privilege. People who actually work for what they have._ She couldn't shake that memory, and now that she was holding a grudge, she was loath to let go of it.

Gradually their relationship morphed into a rivalry, with Clarke exuding outright antipathy and Bellamy resorting to sarcasm and conceit. Eventually, Clarke got so used to being hostile towards him that she almost forgot the reason why. It hardly mattered anymore. They were already locked in a pattern of constant sniping and snark, a cycle perpetuated by the inertia of contention.

From that December forward, Clarke had resolved that Bellamy Blake would never be anything more than her competition.


End file.
